It's just been one of those weeks.
A week full of corporate bullshit, a week about bitching about paying employees and having meetings to ensure quality work and to promote better returns.
I was told that if I smile more, and be more cheerful, the company will perform better. I kid you not. And I'd say I'm one of the happiest people at work, 'cause I'm a fuckin' happy person.
The respite for all of this, the carrot at then end of a very long and improperly inserted stick, was supposed to come this weekend. Supposed to.
The almost-boyfriend and me were supposed to house-sit at my cousin's Saturday/Sunday. It was going to be the first time since Pride that we had time to ourselves, time to just hang out together 'at home' and enjoy each other's company in the most casual way possible.
We're both looking forward to it, yearning to have an evening of normality where we can cuddle on the couch, cook dinner and have sex with each other...attempt to be a functional, normal couple. We're both so much looking forward to it, in fact, that we talked about it for an hour yesterday.
And as of yesterday, just like two weeks ago when the originally asked, the word from my cousins was yes, we still need you. No doubt in my mind, I told them to call me tonight to let me know the details.
But fate decided to give me another bitch-slap, because now the whole thing is off. They're not going after all, last minute decision, but thanks for being available.
So there will be no cooking dinner, no cuddling on the couch, and no privacy. And now I have to make a phone call and disappoint someone else.
I guess it's just been one of those weeks.
Showing posts with label 'Home' Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 'Home' Life. Show all posts
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
A gay highschool reunion...
After probably a year and a half, I finally got to spend an evening with the only openly gay person I went to highschool with.
Leah didn't come out until the second year of her university, and while everyone else wasn't particularly surprised, it certainly took me off guard. After all, this was a girl that I had known to have fooled around with a few boys in her day, especially on one hilarious and fondly remembered evening a few summers ago during a party at my house.
I vividly remember her coming out to me during my first year at university. I was talking to her via IM, and commented on her profile picture, a nice snapshot of her and another girl, both dressed formally and looking great. Their smiles were a mile wide, and I asked who the other girl was, honestly curious about her friends and how she was enjoying school.
"Oh," she said. "That's my date."
Thinking she was being a typical girl, I assumed that this 'date' was just a friend of hers who had attended their residence formal with her. The thought she was being serious didn't enter my mind, as I replied, "She looks cute, how long have you two been together?"
"Oh, I guess a couple months now," she said. "Her name is Elizabeth."
Without ever actually saying, "I am gay," we spent the next few minutes talking about her girlfriend. Looking back, it was a nice experience, and I hope I was one of the people that offered no snobbish, small-town reaction to her sexuality. I myself was still figuring things out at the time, and didn't return the favor of being as candid.
Last night, she happened to be passing through our home town. She hasn't been home for the summer in years, and barely makes more than a few day's appearance at Christmas, so when she wrote asking if I was free I jumped at the chance to see her.
The evening was a flashback to highschool days. I took the same route that I always did from my house towards hers, and grinned when I pulled into her driveway. Here I was, Friday night back home, and I was going out once again with the people I used to.
She opened the door seconds after I'd run the bell, and smiled at me. Her hair was cut shorter than usual, with a shag that I would have found quite attractive on a boy. I smiled as we hugged, and noticed her parents come into the room. We talked for a few minutes about how I was doing, about the old days and how everyone had flown the coop, including their daughter.
"But you, you're so thin!" Leah's father said, sizing me up. I muttered some comment about being on a student's budget, and the conversation changed to something else.
Of course, for the next few minutes, I obsessed over his comment. Good Lord, was I that big in highschool? I don't think I necessarily qualify as being really thin, comparative to the naked boys I've seen. Not that I'm large, but it took me off guard that someone who hasn't seen me in years would make a point to imply I've lost a lot of weight. Wow, has it really been that much? And if so, what the hell was I thinking in highschool?
The only departure from our usual Friday routine was the fact that instead of drinking at someone's house, or rather in their basement, we were drinking in a bar. Leah sat across the booth from me, and our conversation just flowed. We covered the usual topics, catching up on school and future prospects and living arrangements...everything.
Then came her mentioning of Pride Week. I had hoped she would recount her time with me, thinking maybe it would be a good way to segue into subtly telling her about my own sexuality. All I had to ask was, "Did you have fun?" and she spent the next minutes explaining all the details of her weekend.
I was conflicted the entire time. Part of me wanted so badly to say, "Oh, I know, wasn't the weather stupid?" and just have it out in the open, but the other wanted me to tread lightly. While I have no problem with her knowing (and actually really would love to have that open between us), I do question her ability to keep it between us. And really, there is only one person I would fear her letting it slip to, the most probable blabbermouth...her best friend from highschool, Marie.
And so I sat there, nodding along as she told her story, then proceeded to go into great detail about all the recent drama in her love life at school. She goes to a small university known for it's extremely high population of gays and lesbians, as well as a very liberal town that provides a positive space for the community, young and old. And yet, she still maintains that the gay community is small.
"It's all interwoven, these weird triangles," she said. "You probably are dating someone that somebody else you know already dated, and it gets dramatic," she added. No shit.
In many ways, we're a lot alike. Her thoughts on dating seem to mirror my own; we're both not unattracted to relationships of substance, but we both still allow ourselves to have fun along the way. I very much got the sense from her that she's the easy-going one in dramatic situations, and it's often everyone else that gets jealous of the other person. She even really impressed me with her politeness and gentlemanly attitude in a situation she described..."We could have either gotten into a making-out competition, or I could have just not shoved it in everyone's face, so I didn't throw myself on her after she made out with the third party," she said calmly of a brewing love triangle between her and two of her friends.
And that was the most interesting point of our gay talk, her troubles with her friends. "I've got to get myself into the whole 'make friends first' thing," she said. Now, I know for a fact she has a great group of lesbian friends at school, I've even been out with them before. But it was how she described meeting new people that I so related to.
"You just..." she said, trailing off. "You meet a person, and you see so much potential for it to go somewhere, and I just find myself interested in them romantically, or I think 'oh you're pretty' or something, and just fall into thinking of them that way instead of actually just being their friend."
I nodded.
"But, it's hard, I mean I've got to stop doing that and focus on just enlarging the circle of friends. Why does that happen, why do I just jump right to being interested in them!" she said, taking a mouthful of beer.
"Well, it's a small community!" I said. "It's not like other people, where you can maybe meet a date anywhere in life...things are small that when you meet someone you want to jump at the chance to have something with them, because the odds seem to be a lot lower than in the straight community."
If that didn't get her mind whirring, I don't know what would, but she didn't ask me any questions. I thought somewhere in that, in my comfort about talking gay and my understanding of how impossible it is at times to stop yourself from going for more than friendship, that she would have picked up on me. But nothing was said and we carried on to a new topic.
Then the reason I didn't want to tell Leah walked through the door. Marie slid into the seat beside her, and suddenly the urge to come out was shoved back into the closet. In the few first minutes, I was reminded how gossipy and nosey Marie is, and how entirely possible it would be for Leah to accidentally mention it, and then Marie spread it far and wide. I did some mental head slapping, thinking how stupid it all was that I couldn't be out to a lesbian, that I couldn't be out to the few people I still talk to from home because of the small-towns-talk-syndrome.
Conversation continued, and suddenly Leah looked at me and said, "So Steve, how about you, what's new on the dating front?" It would have been a perfect introduction for me to tell her about my current romance, but I shrugged it off with an over-dramatic, "Oh GOD, let's not talk about it, you'll be bored."
In the parking lot, we had our hugs and said our goodbyes and made our promises to visit each other. I stared meaningfully at Leah when she suggested maybe visiting me in Toronto. "Yes!" I said, enthused at the idea, already planning our trip out on the town. "Come visit...we'll go out!"
On the way home, I decided I should probably tell her. Why not, right? Ask her to keep it specifically from Marie, and things should be alright. And then finally we can have that long talk about our gay lives, from day one.
I'm just still not convinced it's the best idea.
Leah didn't come out until the second year of her university, and while everyone else wasn't particularly surprised, it certainly took me off guard. After all, this was a girl that I had known to have fooled around with a few boys in her day, especially on one hilarious and fondly remembered evening a few summers ago during a party at my house.
I vividly remember her coming out to me during my first year at university. I was talking to her via IM, and commented on her profile picture, a nice snapshot of her and another girl, both dressed formally and looking great. Their smiles were a mile wide, and I asked who the other girl was, honestly curious about her friends and how she was enjoying school.
"Oh," she said. "That's my date."
Thinking she was being a typical girl, I assumed that this 'date' was just a friend of hers who had attended their residence formal with her. The thought she was being serious didn't enter my mind, as I replied, "She looks cute, how long have you two been together?"
"Oh, I guess a couple months now," she said. "Her name is Elizabeth."
Without ever actually saying, "I am gay," we spent the next few minutes talking about her girlfriend. Looking back, it was a nice experience, and I hope I was one of the people that offered no snobbish, small-town reaction to her sexuality. I myself was still figuring things out at the time, and didn't return the favor of being as candid.
Last night, she happened to be passing through our home town. She hasn't been home for the summer in years, and barely makes more than a few day's appearance at Christmas, so when she wrote asking if I was free I jumped at the chance to see her.
The evening was a flashback to highschool days. I took the same route that I always did from my house towards hers, and grinned when I pulled into her driveway. Here I was, Friday night back home, and I was going out once again with the people I used to.
She opened the door seconds after I'd run the bell, and smiled at me. Her hair was cut shorter than usual, with a shag that I would have found quite attractive on a boy. I smiled as we hugged, and noticed her parents come into the room. We talked for a few minutes about how I was doing, about the old days and how everyone had flown the coop, including their daughter.
"But you, you're so thin!" Leah's father said, sizing me up. I muttered some comment about being on a student's budget, and the conversation changed to something else.
Of course, for the next few minutes, I obsessed over his comment. Good Lord, was I that big in highschool? I don't think I necessarily qualify as being really thin, comparative to the naked boys I've seen. Not that I'm large, but it took me off guard that someone who hasn't seen me in years would make a point to imply I've lost a lot of weight. Wow, has it really been that much? And if so, what the hell was I thinking in highschool?
The only departure from our usual Friday routine was the fact that instead of drinking at someone's house, or rather in their basement, we were drinking in a bar. Leah sat across the booth from me, and our conversation just flowed. We covered the usual topics, catching up on school and future prospects and living arrangements...everything.
Then came her mentioning of Pride Week. I had hoped she would recount her time with me, thinking maybe it would be a good way to segue into subtly telling her about my own sexuality. All I had to ask was, "Did you have fun?" and she spent the next minutes explaining all the details of her weekend.
I was conflicted the entire time. Part of me wanted so badly to say, "Oh, I know, wasn't the weather stupid?" and just have it out in the open, but the other wanted me to tread lightly. While I have no problem with her knowing (and actually really would love to have that open between us), I do question her ability to keep it between us. And really, there is only one person I would fear her letting it slip to, the most probable blabbermouth...her best friend from highschool, Marie.
And so I sat there, nodding along as she told her story, then proceeded to go into great detail about all the recent drama in her love life at school. She goes to a small university known for it's extremely high population of gays and lesbians, as well as a very liberal town that provides a positive space for the community, young and old. And yet, she still maintains that the gay community is small.
"It's all interwoven, these weird triangles," she said. "You probably are dating someone that somebody else you know already dated, and it gets dramatic," she added. No shit.
In many ways, we're a lot alike. Her thoughts on dating seem to mirror my own; we're both not unattracted to relationships of substance, but we both still allow ourselves to have fun along the way. I very much got the sense from her that she's the easy-going one in dramatic situations, and it's often everyone else that gets jealous of the other person. She even really impressed me with her politeness and gentlemanly attitude in a situation she described..."We could have either gotten into a making-out competition, or I could have just not shoved it in everyone's face, so I didn't throw myself on her after she made out with the third party," she said calmly of a brewing love triangle between her and two of her friends.
And that was the most interesting point of our gay talk, her troubles with her friends. "I've got to get myself into the whole 'make friends first' thing," she said. Now, I know for a fact she has a great group of lesbian friends at school, I've even been out with them before. But it was how she described meeting new people that I so related to.
"You just..." she said, trailing off. "You meet a person, and you see so much potential for it to go somewhere, and I just find myself interested in them romantically, or I think 'oh you're pretty' or something, and just fall into thinking of them that way instead of actually just being their friend."
I nodded.
"But, it's hard, I mean I've got to stop doing that and focus on just enlarging the circle of friends. Why does that happen, why do I just jump right to being interested in them!" she said, taking a mouthful of beer.
"Well, it's a small community!" I said. "It's not like other people, where you can maybe meet a date anywhere in life...things are small that when you meet someone you want to jump at the chance to have something with them, because the odds seem to be a lot lower than in the straight community."
If that didn't get her mind whirring, I don't know what would, but she didn't ask me any questions. I thought somewhere in that, in my comfort about talking gay and my understanding of how impossible it is at times to stop yourself from going for more than friendship, that she would have picked up on me. But nothing was said and we carried on to a new topic.
Then the reason I didn't want to tell Leah walked through the door. Marie slid into the seat beside her, and suddenly the urge to come out was shoved back into the closet. In the few first minutes, I was reminded how gossipy and nosey Marie is, and how entirely possible it would be for Leah to accidentally mention it, and then Marie spread it far and wide. I did some mental head slapping, thinking how stupid it all was that I couldn't be out to a lesbian, that I couldn't be out to the few people I still talk to from home because of the small-towns-talk-syndrome.
Conversation continued, and suddenly Leah looked at me and said, "So Steve, how about you, what's new on the dating front?" It would have been a perfect introduction for me to tell her about my current romance, but I shrugged it off with an over-dramatic, "Oh GOD, let's not talk about it, you'll be bored."
In the parking lot, we had our hugs and said our goodbyes and made our promises to visit each other. I stared meaningfully at Leah when she suggested maybe visiting me in Toronto. "Yes!" I said, enthused at the idea, already planning our trip out on the town. "Come visit...we'll go out!"
On the way home, I decided I should probably tell her. Why not, right? Ask her to keep it specifically from Marie, and things should be alright. And then finally we can have that long talk about our gay lives, from day one.
I'm just still not convinced it's the best idea.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Where am I...
This week is a whirlwind that promises never to stop.
I've been trying to pack, running last minute errands, to Toronto and back 4 times, moved my Grandparents, picked up Lisa from her place...
I'd give you a blow-by-blow but it's boring.
Ultimately, though I'm getting really excited to be moving back to school, I'm not excited about how crazy I've been, and the random hours I've kept.
In the beginning I believed the stress of this week would kill me. There were a variety of obstacles that I needed to brave to organize my life (or attempt to) before I moved to school. Seeing as I'm not the type of person to 'go with the flow' when it comes to moving, I had a profound sense of dread in my gut for the better part of these adventures. Instead of enjoying the last minutes with my family, my mood kept me somewhat distant.
Moving my Grandparents was actually a lot more fun than expected. My parents and I all showed up, "To move a few boxes," as per the description of my Grandfather. There were a few boxes, and we had a lot of laughs packing things up and moving things about their apartment. The day started to grow rather long when we were still there at 4 p.m., hanging fans and their AC unit, but overall it went much faster, and was way more fun than expected. I even got that little heartwarming flutter some time in the morning, when we were all talking and laughing together. I can't describe why. But it felt nice. Something that's been missing.
I packed for the better part of the evening, mostly clothes (I have two suitcases full, how did this happen!?) and am about to pack this computer up. There theoretically should be lots more I need to pack, but I can't remember what all I had in my room last year that I actually used. I'm resisting the idea of taking every DVD and CD I own because I really never touched them. Similarly, I question the need for a lot of the more frivolous stuff, such as an Xbox, because they all take up space and I never remember to use them during the year. As long as I have my Mac, what more do I need?
I know that blog activity across the board has decreased, what with people out and about and dealing with the new semester. I miss you guys, and can't wait for everything to resume the 'new normal' that will be September and school. There are several semi-intelligible posts in the can, but I'm not done tinkering with them yet, but hopefully will have some time to early next week.
Until then...
I've been trying to pack, running last minute errands, to Toronto and back 4 times, moved my Grandparents, picked up Lisa from her place...
I'd give you a blow-by-blow but it's boring.
Ultimately, though I'm getting really excited to be moving back to school, I'm not excited about how crazy I've been, and the random hours I've kept.
In the beginning I believed the stress of this week would kill me. There were a variety of obstacles that I needed to brave to organize my life (or attempt to) before I moved to school. Seeing as I'm not the type of person to 'go with the flow' when it comes to moving, I had a profound sense of dread in my gut for the better part of these adventures. Instead of enjoying the last minutes with my family, my mood kept me somewhat distant.
Moving my Grandparents was actually a lot more fun than expected. My parents and I all showed up, "To move a few boxes," as per the description of my Grandfather. There were a few boxes, and we had a lot of laughs packing things up and moving things about their apartment. The day started to grow rather long when we were still there at 4 p.m., hanging fans and their AC unit, but overall it went much faster, and was way more fun than expected. I even got that little heartwarming flutter some time in the morning, when we were all talking and laughing together. I can't describe why. But it felt nice. Something that's been missing.
I packed for the better part of the evening, mostly clothes (I have two suitcases full, how did this happen!?) and am about to pack this computer up. There theoretically should be lots more I need to pack, but I can't remember what all I had in my room last year that I actually used. I'm resisting the idea of taking every DVD and CD I own because I really never touched them. Similarly, I question the need for a lot of the more frivolous stuff, such as an Xbox, because they all take up space and I never remember to use them during the year. As long as I have my Mac, what more do I need?
I know that blog activity across the board has decreased, what with people out and about and dealing with the new semester. I miss you guys, and can't wait for everything to resume the 'new normal' that will be September and school. There are several semi-intelligible posts in the can, but I'm not done tinkering with them yet, but hopefully will have some time to early next week.
Until then...
Monday, June 25, 2007
Farmboy Guilt...
Some of you may have actual experience with this, but even if it's not Farmboy Guilt, everyone has something that tweaks their guilt strings every now and then.
For me, it's all about the changes over the past few years. I packed up in 2005 and headed for the big city, glad to be having a change in life and scenery. I've lived in the same small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere my whole life, and there's no way to break away unless you simply leave. And so I did.
Not that I didn't miss being around my family, and my pets, and acres upon acres of free space. But I certainly didn't miss the insanity that is farming, and everything uncivilized and uncultured about it. I'd done enough of that in my formative years to last me a lifetime. Don't get me wrong, I think everyone should be exposed to some part of this side of life. It's a great way to keep humble and make sure your head doesn't get too big. But at the same time, I can imagine how stifling it must be for so many people (my father included).
So when I moved to Toronto, I was overjoyed by the freedom from farming. Because, quite honestly, I don't like pounding posts for fences, or stacking square bales, or driving a tractor up and down, up and down for hours on end. It's boring, unstimulating, and psychologically unsatisfying. No more would I have to suffer the horrors of agriculture, now that I had started life in the city. I had friends who actually wanted to visit art galleries and museums and listen to jazz music and embrace culture.
When I visited home, I would fall back into some sense of farmiliarity. I would help my father on Saturday afternoons, or lend a hand with my Uncle. After getting back to the city, I would joke about how strange my life was; one minute shoveling shit, knee deep in the stuff...the next shopping on Bloor Street in Yorkville, in some semblence of style. Truly this could be deemed a magical time, getting just a dash of the farmiliar while at the same time spreading my urban wings.
This summer I had no intention of doing any agricultural work. None. I'd had my fill, and I wanted to get a real job, and actually be challenged, as opposed to simply picking up the pitchfork and doing the same old routine. I'd had enough of the stupidity of my Uncle and cousins and their backwards outlook on life.
One night a few weeks ago, before my parents left on vacation, I went out in the evening with my dad to give him a quick hand. The sun was setting and the sky was a firey orange, casting long shadows from the towering trees. Birds sang softly, and the wind played with the corn stalks, rustling them quietly in the twilight. As we worked, I gazed longlingly down the rows of corn, watching the stalks shiver in the now cool night air. The stars winked into view, and the last rays of sun disappeared in the western sky. And I felt guilty.
There I was, actually missing farming. For those few minutes, I was enamored with the beauty of nature, and the overwhelming urge to jump on a tractor and start working invaded my brain. I felt guilty for begrudgingly agreeing to help my father, instead of doing my duty as a good son and offering to help before being asked. I felt guilty for turning my back on my past, my roots, and the dirt under my feet.
The next day, I still couldn't believe how I felt once I was actually in the field again. The realization that I really did want to be out there, if only for a little bit to fill some void in my soul, stoned me. But in the hard sunlight of that morning, I understood I had been swept up by my romantic mind and carried away by the few moments of beauty I had enjoyed. After all, this was peaceful natural bliss I had experienced, not anything like a typical day of work. There was no mechanical failures, no Uncle or cousins to drive me crazy, no lack of stimulation or repetitive motions to dull my brain...this was not farming. This was my romantic ideal of farming, something that does not exsist.
Yet here I am, working again for my Uncle, doing the same jobs I used to do, and being bored to tears. Admitedly the first few hours were fun, but as I got readjusted to the bounce of my seat and the grind of the gears, as well as the sun beaming down on me all day, I remembered all too vividly why I don't like farming. So what made me even think of agreeing to doing it just one more time? I'll chalk it up to Farmboy Guilt.
Will I ever be rid of this? Once I move away completely, start life away from my homestead and not return to work, will I be free of the obligation? Or will it morph into something even worse than it is now, a knawing in the back of my mind, as I work on the 32nd floor of an office building, or jet across the Atlantic on a business trip, that I have left my past behind. Will the Farmboy Guilt follow me to the grave?
I guess we all fell a little guilty about leaving our pasts behind. Packing up for the last time, saying goodbye to the house you lived in, and permanantly moving away. After all, this is what you want, to have the life you want. If you make the break really clean, I guess the guilt is minimized, since you're not constantly being reminded what's happening back there. But maybe at some point, when you see a scene that lets your imagination take you back to a moment in your past, most likely fabricated from snippets of truth that combine to make one really rosey memory, you'll have that quiet whisper in the back of your mind...and feel a twinge of guilt.
For me, it's all about the changes over the past few years. I packed up in 2005 and headed for the big city, glad to be having a change in life and scenery. I've lived in the same small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere my whole life, and there's no way to break away unless you simply leave. And so I did.
Not that I didn't miss being around my family, and my pets, and acres upon acres of free space. But I certainly didn't miss the insanity that is farming, and everything uncivilized and uncultured about it. I'd done enough of that in my formative years to last me a lifetime. Don't get me wrong, I think everyone should be exposed to some part of this side of life. It's a great way to keep humble and make sure your head doesn't get too big. But at the same time, I can imagine how stifling it must be for so many people (my father included).
So when I moved to Toronto, I was overjoyed by the freedom from farming. Because, quite honestly, I don't like pounding posts for fences, or stacking square bales, or driving a tractor up and down, up and down for hours on end. It's boring, unstimulating, and psychologically unsatisfying. No more would I have to suffer the horrors of agriculture, now that I had started life in the city. I had friends who actually wanted to visit art galleries and museums and listen to jazz music and embrace culture.
When I visited home, I would fall back into some sense of farmiliarity. I would help my father on Saturday afternoons, or lend a hand with my Uncle. After getting back to the city, I would joke about how strange my life was; one minute shoveling shit, knee deep in the stuff...the next shopping on Bloor Street in Yorkville, in some semblence of style. Truly this could be deemed a magical time, getting just a dash of the farmiliar while at the same time spreading my urban wings.
This summer I had no intention of doing any agricultural work. None. I'd had my fill, and I wanted to get a real job, and actually be challenged, as opposed to simply picking up the pitchfork and doing the same old routine. I'd had enough of the stupidity of my Uncle and cousins and their backwards outlook on life.
One night a few weeks ago, before my parents left on vacation, I went out in the evening with my dad to give him a quick hand. The sun was setting and the sky was a firey orange, casting long shadows from the towering trees. Birds sang softly, and the wind played with the corn stalks, rustling them quietly in the twilight. As we worked, I gazed longlingly down the rows of corn, watching the stalks shiver in the now cool night air. The stars winked into view, and the last rays of sun disappeared in the western sky. And I felt guilty.
There I was, actually missing farming. For those few minutes, I was enamored with the beauty of nature, and the overwhelming urge to jump on a tractor and start working invaded my brain. I felt guilty for begrudgingly agreeing to help my father, instead of doing my duty as a good son and offering to help before being asked. I felt guilty for turning my back on my past, my roots, and the dirt under my feet.
The next day, I still couldn't believe how I felt once I was actually in the field again. The realization that I really did want to be out there, if only for a little bit to fill some void in my soul, stoned me. But in the hard sunlight of that morning, I understood I had been swept up by my romantic mind and carried away by the few moments of beauty I had enjoyed. After all, this was peaceful natural bliss I had experienced, not anything like a typical day of work. There was no mechanical failures, no Uncle or cousins to drive me crazy, no lack of stimulation or repetitive motions to dull my brain...this was not farming. This was my romantic ideal of farming, something that does not exsist.
Yet here I am, working again for my Uncle, doing the same jobs I used to do, and being bored to tears. Admitedly the first few hours were fun, but as I got readjusted to the bounce of my seat and the grind of the gears, as well as the sun beaming down on me all day, I remembered all too vividly why I don't like farming. So what made me even think of agreeing to doing it just one more time? I'll chalk it up to Farmboy Guilt.
Will I ever be rid of this? Once I move away completely, start life away from my homestead and not return to work, will I be free of the obligation? Or will it morph into something even worse than it is now, a knawing in the back of my mind, as I work on the 32nd floor of an office building, or jet across the Atlantic on a business trip, that I have left my past behind. Will the Farmboy Guilt follow me to the grave?
I guess we all fell a little guilty about leaving our pasts behind. Packing up for the last time, saying goodbye to the house you lived in, and permanantly moving away. After all, this is what you want, to have the life you want. If you make the break really clean, I guess the guilt is minimized, since you're not constantly being reminded what's happening back there. But maybe at some point, when you see a scene that lets your imagination take you back to a moment in your past, most likely fabricated from snippets of truth that combine to make one really rosey memory, you'll have that quiet whisper in the back of your mind...and feel a twinge of guilt.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Out of time...
I'm facing somewhat of a dilemma.
Ok, it's more than somewhat. It's nearing a full-blown crisis: my employment status. Before I went away, I applied to a handful of good jobs that were in my area. These weren't jobs at the iced cream stand, or shucking coffee or burgers or something...these were decent student jobs that I felt really qualified for.
Through a set of circumstances which leave me wondering why Fate doesn't want me to have a good job, I was never hired by anyone. I wasn't even called for an interview. When I did follow up with on particular job, the woman told me I had a stellar resume, but that she didn't call me because she "thought (I) would want something better than her job." After smacking my forhead a few times, I began packing for France and forced myself to not worry about getting a job.
While I was away, for the most part I didn't dwell on the job thing. Every now and then we'd get into a discussion about what everyone was doing for summer jobs, and I would painfully recount my story thus far. Everyone was sympathetic, and agreed that I am always getting screwed with the job thing. Near the end of the trip, I would fall asleep with the doom and gloom of what I had to look forward to when getting home: moving out of my apartment and finding a job.
Still, I kept a positive attitude, and even applied for a few jobs the day after I got home. And still, nobody has even bothered to call me back. I'm now really, really screwed, because all the jobs that were 'good' are gone, and I'm faced with finding another to desperately start saving for next year's tuition.
There really isn't that much available to me here. In truth, I have no good options. All the jobs that are open are things that I can't even imagine myself doing...fast food, coffee places (sadly not Starbucks, but more like McDonalds Coffee Houses), resturants...and Wal Mart.
I don't knock anyone who works any of these jobs. But I also can't see myself donning the blue vest and walking into the world's biggest chain store. It just makes me feel...well, not very useful. I mean, I'm going into my 3rd year of college, I've got a resume that blows many out of the water, I've got citations for academic excellence and references from important people around town...I should be pouring myself into something more worthwhile than pouring coffee.
And it brings up a host of other issues...like can I ethically work at Wal Mart. I don't even shop there, and though I'm no bleeding-heart anti-globalization ultra-liberal, working for 'The Man' that is Wal Mart gives me a queezy feeling. I don't know if I can respect myself after walking in and out of that door with that damn blue vest on.
The worst part is, I'm running out of time. I've been home a week and a few days, and I really need to start working. The forcast is grim...I don't really have anywhere else left to apply except at some chain store for a job I don't even want. But I need something. Now.
What should I do? Am I being pretentious by not wanting to work at a fast food joint? Should I strap on my blue vest and sign up for Wal Mart? Do I keep waiting for something to come along that better suits me? Please, I really need some advice.
Ok, it's more than somewhat. It's nearing a full-blown crisis: my employment status. Before I went away, I applied to a handful of good jobs that were in my area. These weren't jobs at the iced cream stand, or shucking coffee or burgers or something...these were decent student jobs that I felt really qualified for.
Through a set of circumstances which leave me wondering why Fate doesn't want me to have a good job, I was never hired by anyone. I wasn't even called for an interview. When I did follow up with on particular job, the woman told me I had a stellar resume, but that she didn't call me because she "thought (I) would want something better than her job." After smacking my forhead a few times, I began packing for France and forced myself to not worry about getting a job.
While I was away, for the most part I didn't dwell on the job thing. Every now and then we'd get into a discussion about what everyone was doing for summer jobs, and I would painfully recount my story thus far. Everyone was sympathetic, and agreed that I am always getting screwed with the job thing. Near the end of the trip, I would fall asleep with the doom and gloom of what I had to look forward to when getting home: moving out of my apartment and finding a job.
Still, I kept a positive attitude, and even applied for a few jobs the day after I got home. And still, nobody has even bothered to call me back. I'm now really, really screwed, because all the jobs that were 'good' are gone, and I'm faced with finding another to desperately start saving for next year's tuition.
There really isn't that much available to me here. In truth, I have no good options. All the jobs that are open are things that I can't even imagine myself doing...fast food, coffee places (sadly not Starbucks, but more like McDonalds Coffee Houses), resturants...and Wal Mart.
I don't knock anyone who works any of these jobs. But I also can't see myself donning the blue vest and walking into the world's biggest chain store. It just makes me feel...well, not very useful. I mean, I'm going into my 3rd year of college, I've got a resume that blows many out of the water, I've got citations for academic excellence and references from important people around town...I should be pouring myself into something more worthwhile than pouring coffee.
And it brings up a host of other issues...like can I ethically work at Wal Mart. I don't even shop there, and though I'm no bleeding-heart anti-globalization ultra-liberal, working for 'The Man' that is Wal Mart gives me a queezy feeling. I don't know if I can respect myself after walking in and out of that door with that damn blue vest on.
The worst part is, I'm running out of time. I've been home a week and a few days, and I really need to start working. The forcast is grim...I don't really have anywhere else left to apply except at some chain store for a job I don't even want. But I need something. Now.
What should I do? Am I being pretentious by not wanting to work at a fast food joint? Should I strap on my blue vest and sign up for Wal Mart? Do I keep waiting for something to come along that better suits me? Please, I really need some advice.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Home again...
Well, the move is complete.
For the most part, anyway. I packed all my things into some boxes, stuffed my suitcase with clothes and tucked my computer back into it's box. My furniature still sits in limbo in my room, giving it a weird aura. It's almost like a hotel room, with an empty desk and shelves. Kind of symbolic that my room should look so abandoned, after living a year with the roommate from hell.
As I slid the last few boxes closer to the door, I studied the room. It's really comfortable, and I'm quite happy with it. I looked at the bed where so much has changed, the desk where my computer sat, the silver clock that's still an hour behind, never reset for Daylight Savings...what should I be feeling?
There was a mixture of sadness and regret, but I was surprised to find a part of me that didn't really care. There was a total of one night that I lay in bed and thought to myself finally, "This is my room! I live here!" Nearly every other day I felt like a (mistreated) guest in my own home. And I'm not going to miss that.
Strangely enough, my dear roommate was there when I started moving boxes out the door. What was strage, she never took the opportunity to make a grand enterance, or criticize, or do much of anything. It was almost a let-down, since I had prepared myself for her to make some comments about my departure.
After what felt like hours, everything was finally in the car and we were on our way. The same ritual was praticed once we arrived, unpacking the car, trip after trip through doors and up stairs, until finally my room was overflowing with boxes. I then started the tedious task of unpacking...something I'm still working on.
Observations after being here for less than 24 hours:
-my room at home is the same size as my apartment room, yet nothing fits anywhere
-my furniature has no space for clothes/little shelf space
-my closet is microscopically small
-our taps drip and don't exactly work properly
-there is no space for me; no room for my coats, no room in the bathroom for my stuff, no space in the kitchen for my coffee maker
-my mother will drive me insane, after having a room that was utterly my space, she walked in and out of it about 100 times. She also has a tendancy to 'find things' 'innocently', eg. porn. So privacy=0 at the moment...and it's going to be interesting to figure out what to do with that box of porn and sex toys...
-there are people here who love me, and I feel welcome in my own home again
For the most part, anyway. I packed all my things into some boxes, stuffed my suitcase with clothes and tucked my computer back into it's box. My furniature still sits in limbo in my room, giving it a weird aura. It's almost like a hotel room, with an empty desk and shelves. Kind of symbolic that my room should look so abandoned, after living a year with the roommate from hell.
As I slid the last few boxes closer to the door, I studied the room. It's really comfortable, and I'm quite happy with it. I looked at the bed where so much has changed, the desk where my computer sat, the silver clock that's still an hour behind, never reset for Daylight Savings...what should I be feeling?
There was a mixture of sadness and regret, but I was surprised to find a part of me that didn't really care. There was a total of one night that I lay in bed and thought to myself finally, "This is my room! I live here!" Nearly every other day I felt like a (mistreated) guest in my own home. And I'm not going to miss that.
Strangely enough, my dear roommate was there when I started moving boxes out the door. What was strage, she never took the opportunity to make a grand enterance, or criticize, or do much of anything. It was almost a let-down, since I had prepared myself for her to make some comments about my departure.
After what felt like hours, everything was finally in the car and we were on our way. The same ritual was praticed once we arrived, unpacking the car, trip after trip through doors and up stairs, until finally my room was overflowing with boxes. I then started the tedious task of unpacking...something I'm still working on.
Observations after being here for less than 24 hours:
-my room at home is the same size as my apartment room, yet nothing fits anywhere
-my furniature has no space for clothes/little shelf space
-my closet is microscopically small
-our taps drip and don't exactly work properly
-there is no space for me; no room for my coats, no room in the bathroom for my stuff, no space in the kitchen for my coffee maker
-my mother will drive me insane, after having a room that was utterly my space, she walked in and out of it about 100 times. She also has a tendancy to 'find things' 'innocently', eg. porn. So privacy=0 at the moment...and it's going to be interesting to figure out what to do with that box of porn and sex toys...
-there are people here who love me, and I feel welcome in my own home again
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